The Indigo King

by James A. Owen

  Uncas shrugged. “Badgers named Charles Mongolfier Hargreaves-Heald name their children Fred.”

  “Why not follow the tale completely and call him Chingachgook?” asked Jack.

  The badgers wrinkled their snouts in distaste. “That’s a very strange name,” said Uncas. “Why would I call him that?”

  “Didn’t you get your name from the Cooper story?”

  “The who what?” said Uncas, shaking his head. “I was once in a play called The Last of th’ Phoenicians,” the badger explained proudly. “It was written by my father. He gots th’ name from there, an’ it stuck t’ me.”

  “My mistake,” said Jack.

  * * *

  “What can we do for you, Master Scowlers?” asked Uncas.

  John and Jack explained what had happened with the Grail book, and the evening stroll, and the door in the wood, and Hugo’s disappearance. All the while they were speaking, the badgers listened with great attentiveness.

  “Well,” said Uncas when they had finished, “we really had expected to be rescuin’ Scowler Charles, but seein’ as we’re already here, an your friend Hobo—”

  “Hugo,” John corrected.

  “Right, Hugo,” said Uncas. “Since he’s in trouble, we’ll see what we can do.”

  The badgers swarmed around their vehicle—which Fred explained was called the Howling Improbable—apparently preparing for whatever it was that a Royal Animal Rescue Squad did, while John and Jack watched in patient amusement.

  “Do you think Charles is aware of the hero worship being spread around the animal community in the Archipelago?” asked Jack.

  “Probably,” said John, “but if he isn’t, I’m not going to be the one who tells him.”

  Jack gestured at the badger called Fred, who approached the men with a mixture of shyness and awe. “Yes, Master Scowlers?”

  “Tell us about your book,” said John, crouching down to meet Fred’s eyes. “This ‘Little Whatsit.’”

  “The prince, Stephen,” said Fred. “It was his idea, really. He thought it was impractical to have to go back and forth to Paralon every time he needed to look something up in the Histories. So he set Solomon Kaw and the other crows to work compiling important information and distilling it into a single volume.

  “It doesn’t have everything about anything,” Fred concluded, “but …”

  “It has something about everything,” Jack finished for him. “Brilliant.”

  “I think so too,” Fred agreed. “I never go anywhere without mine. Grandfather Tummeler published it, like he did with the Geographica. It’s only been printed once, but Grandfather says something like this takes time to find an audience.”

  “Pardon my asking,” said John, “but you don’t seem to talk in quite the same way as your father and grandfather. You’re a bit more …”

  “Educated?” guessed Fred.

  “I was going to say ‘articulate,’” said John, “but yes, educated will do.”

  Fred looked over his shoulder to where Uncas was coordinating some sort of effort involving coiled wires under the chassis of the Howling Improbable.

  “I studied with Stephen under Charys, and Solomon Kaw, and even Samaranth himself,” said Fred. “I always thought that maybe, just maybe, if an animal could make himself learn everything it was possible to learn, then I could make my grandfather proud of me. I even hoped … I thought maybe …”

  “Maybe what, Fred?” Jack asked.

  The little mammal shifted his feet and would have blushed, if not for his fur. “I thought it might be possible that if I could become a good enough scholar, I might even be able to become a Caretaker myself. Like Charles. Like you.”

  John and Jack looked at each other, then smiled at Fred. “I think you’d make a very good Caretaker,” Jack told the badger. “A very good one indeed.”

  * * *

  “We’ve formulated a plan,” Uncas announced finally.

  “Excellent,” said John. “What is it?”

  “We’re goin’ back t’ the Archipelago and getting more help,” said the badger.

  “What!” exclaimed John and Jack together.

  “You’ve been doing … things around your vehicle for an hour,” said John. “And after all this, the best you can manage is to give up?”

  “We’re not giving up,” huffed Uncas. “But an animal has to know the difference between fight an’ flight. And we wasn’t prepared to handle something like this.”

  “What do you usually do?”

  “Well, t’ be honest,” Uncas said sheepishly, “this be th’ first time we ever went out on a job.”

  “The first time?” exclaimed Jack.

  “Yes,” said Uncas. “In truth, the whole reason the squad was formed was for this one night, and after fourteen years, we’re, uh … we’re really not sure what t’ do.”

  The little animal looked as if it might burst into tears at any second. Jack sighed heavily and sat down next to him.

  “Fourteen years,” said John. “You’ve really been waiting fourteen years for this mission, tonight?”

  “Yes,” said Uncas. “The Prime Caretaker is going to be very disappointed.”

  “The what?” asked John.

  “Th’ Prime Caretaker,” said Uncas.

  “I’m the Caretaker Principia,” John said.

  “Not the Caretaker Principia,” said Uncas, “the Prime Caretaker.”

  “Do you mean Bert?”

  “The Far Traveler? No. He is a friend to us all, but he is not the Prime Caretaker. The Frenchman is.”

  “Frenchman?” asked John. “Do you mean …”

  “Never mind who arranged for you to be here,” said Jack. “You are still exactly what we’d hoped for. If you appeared here, in Oxford, you must have a means of crossing the Frontier.”

  “We does indeed,” said Uncas. “Every principle in the service of th’ New Republic is equipped with a Dragon’s Feather.” He gestured at the cab of the Howling Improbable, where a bright silver case was fastened above the steering mechanism.

  “Well then,” said Jack, “let’s get back to Paralon, posthaste. We can consult with Aven and Artus, and then go together to see the Cartographer. Between us all, we should be able to sort this all out and rescue Hugo from wherever—whenever—he is.”

  The badgers all let out a whoop and a cheer. “Rescue Squad!” Uncas shouted joyfully. “Clear the site! We’re going home!”

  As the animals rejoiced, John and Jack gave a last look at the doorway.

  “We should go back to my rooms,” said Jack. “We need to pick up the Geographica, and I’m sure Artus would like to have a look at the Grail book.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Fred,” Uncas said, “give me a paw with this, will you?”

  It took a moment for the Caretakers to realize what the two badgers were doing, and that was one moment too long.

  “No!” yelled Jack. “Don’t close the—”

  But it was too late. John and Jack both jumped for the door just as Uncas and Fred were closing it, and as the four of them touched it, they heard the gentle but unmistakable click of stone meeting wood. In that instant, the door vanished as if it had never been there.

  And that wasn’t all.

  The Howling Improbable and all the other badgers in the Royal Animal Rescue Squad were also gone.

  So was Magdalen Tower. And from what they could see, most of the buildings of the college.

  The sky had turned dark, the air chill, and a pall settled over the entire landscape. It was deathly quiet. The trees, what remained of them, were scrawny and barren of leaves. Where there had been soft grass and flowers underfoot, there was now only hard, packed earth.

  The stench of decay and rot hung thickly in the air, and for a moment, it seemed to John and Jack as if they’d forgotten to breathe.

  “Uh-oh,” said Fred.

  “Mistakes were made,” said Uncas.

  And the badger was right, thought John, but the
mistakes had all been his.

  He was the Caretaker Principia. He was the one who was trained, and experienced, and always, always prepared. And all the signs had been there, all the clues he needed. But he’d grown careless and cocksure. His success in the academic world had given him confidence, and the years of relative peace in both the natural world and the Archipelago had made him sloppy. It was bad enough that Hugo was paying a price for that imprecision, but now, now …

  With a mounting pressure inside his head, the gravity of their situation was becoming more and more evident.

  The doorway had been a trap. Jack had even said as much. And up until a moment ago, all John had to do to escape it was to listen to the warning he’d already been given by Hugo himself:

  And in God’s name, don’t close the door!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Unhistory

  The moon rose, and the wan glow it cast over the desolation gave an eerie bas-relief quality to everything the companions saw.

  What had been the gently pastoral countryside and beautiful city of Oxford only a minute before was gone. In their place was a cold, bloodless terrain that had been drained of life. No, worse, John thought—it seemed to have been drained of the will to live. The trees were scrawny and leafless, and the Cherwell and its many streams were reduced to foul-smelling trickles that were little more than open sewers.

  John, Jack, and the badgers cautiously moved onto the walking path above the river and scanned the horizon for any recognizable landmarks. There were none. This was no longer England—or at least, the England they knew.

  “It’s painful just to look at anything,” Fred complained, rubbing at his eyes. “My headbone hurts.”

  Uncas sniffed the air and wrinkled his snout in disgust. “Death. It smells like death all round, Master Scowlers.” The little animal shivered and pulled his son close. “I don’t like it a’tall.”

  John took Jack by the elbow and pointed downriver. “What do you make of that?”

  It was a tower, obscured partially by cloud and fog. They’d only just noticed it in the increasing moonlight. It seemed to suck in light, to blend with the night sky. It was, Jack estimated, almost four hundred feet tall. At the top, a reddish glow emanated from a strange crown of stones that looked more like a lidded eye than parapets.

  “I couldn’t say,” Jack replied. “It’s not Magdalen Tower, but it’s the only thing I can see that seems to have been the work of a civilized mind.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” agreed John. “Until we discern just what’s happened to us, we ought to get out of the open—and except for that”—he jabbed his thumb at the tower—“it’s all open.”

  “Fine,” said Jack. “But what do we do with Uncas and Fred? We certainly couldn’t take them with us into Magdalen.”

  “This isn’t Magdalen,” said John. “I don’t know what it is. But I think that somehow, Hugo changed the past when he went through that door, and we’re seeing the result.”

  “Hugo vanished an hour before this happened,” said Jack. “Why do you think it was he who caused this?”

  “Because of how the doors worked in the Keep of Time,” said John. “The times we viewed through them only became kinetic when the threshold was crossed. I think Hugo set into motion whatever ‘past’ that door led to when he stepped through. The doorway, while open, kept it in flux and connected to our ‘now.’ But when the door closed …”

  “Awwoooooo …,” Fred howled softly, putting his head in his paws. “I’m so sorry, Scowler John, Scowler Jack.”

  “There now,” Uncas said, trying to comfort his son. “I’m in charge of the squad. It be my fault, not yours.”

  The Unhistory 43

  “It be—I mean, it is no one’s fault,” said John, as forcefully as he thought he could sound without rattling the badgers even further. “We shouldn’t place blame. But now we have to work together to find a way out of this mess. Are you with us?”

  The badgers girded themselves up, wiping tears away with one paw while saluting with the other. “Th’ Royal Animal Rescue … uh, Team, is ready to serve, Master Scowlers.”

  “Fine,” John said, turning to Jack. “The badgers stay with us.”

  They made a quick accounting of what they had with them, and the list was scanty. Uncas had a coil of rope, a small hatchet, and a box of oyster crackers (“For real emergencies,” he said), while Fred had a remarkably large key ring, festooned with keys of all shapes and sizes, and his copy of the Little Whatsit. John had his Frog-in-a-Bonnet pocket watch and a small penknife. Jack had only an embroidered handkerchief and a few coins.

  “So, other than the crackers, we’ve no food,” said John.

  “What did you expect?” Jack exclaimed. “We were taking a walk on the college grounds within shouting distance of my own rooms. Why would I have laden my pockets with anything else, especially food?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” John told him. “You’re right. There’s no way for us to have known. I just hate feeling so … so … unprepared.”

  “At least we have the crackers,” said Jack.

  “Um,” said Uncas, quickly brushing the crumbs out of his whiskers, “we did.”

  “I thought those were for an emergency,” John exclaimed.

  Uncas spread his paws and tipped his head back and forth in a matter-of-fact manner. “Seems t’ me this is an emergency.”

  “We really should have some sort of Boy Scout kit,” said John. “An emergency preparedness sort of thing, for use just in case there’s a power outage, or an earthquake, or when one of our friends changes history and makes all the shops vanish.”

  “I’m thinking I wish I’d brought a pie,” said Fred.

  “I’m thinking I wish I’d brought more crackers,” said Uncas.

  “I’m thinking I wish I’d brought the rum,” said Jack.

  Carefully, and trying to stay alert to their surroundings, they began to make their way toward the dark tower, picking their way along the better maintained, passable parts of the path.

  John and Jack each had the same thought: Apart from the eerie resemblance to the Shadowed Lands they had once freed, this tableaux was not entirely unfamiliar in another way. They had both seen—and smelled—places very similar, during their days as soldiers in the Great War. Uncas was right—the smell of death was everywhere.

  Several hundred yards on, the path broadened out into an avenue that looked to be even more difficult to traverse, because of a large amount of debris that obstructed the roadway. Broken wheels, discarded carts, and half-burned boxes were scattered in large piles, nearly obscuring the fact that it was an intersection. On closer examination, Jack noted that there were great spider-webs strewn across the piles, clumped in some places, but completely clear of it in others.

  “We sh-should go round, Master Jack,” said Uncas, the fear in his voice making him stutter.

  “Agreed,” said Jack.

  “No cars,” John observed. “Nothing modern whatsoever. No electricity, as far as I can tell. No automobiles. Not even gas lamps. And those wheels and wagons are archaic. I wonder how far back Hugo went, to have caused this.”

  “Sixth century,” said Jack. “The message on the Grail book had to have been written when he went back. And he knew something bad would happen—that’s why he told us not to close the door.”

  “Don’t remind me,” said John. “My only consolation is that Charles isn’t here to see this too.”

  “I wish Scowler Charles was here,” said Uncas. “He’d have set things aright already, I thinks.”

  “And entirely by accident, knowing Charles,” said Jack.

  “Which still saved you, more than once,” Fred pointed out. “Uh, sir.”

  “You’re probably right,” John said, as he scratched the little animal affectionately on the head. “He does have a knack for doing the right thing at the right moment—whether he knows it or not.”

  The tower stood in what should have been the
center of Oxford, and was ringed with walls of sturdier construction than anything else they had passed. They were several dozen yards high, and unlike the tower they encircled, the walls shone brightly in the moonlight.

  “That’s a hopeful sign,” Jack commented. “At least whoever is in charge around here keeps the outer walls clean.”

  “Hmm,” said John. “Now that’s odd. For a fortification, anyway.”

  He was looking at the great iron and wood doors that were set into the wall, just to their left. Massive, they were obviously intended to withstand a hefty assault—but the crossbeams and braces were on the exterior, rather than inside.

  “Odd isn’t the word,” said Jack. “That’s just stupid engineering. With all the braces out here, it wouldn’t keep anyone out at all. It’d be better for keeping people …” His voice trailed off as he realized the conclusion he’d drawn.

  “Back up,” John said, looking around with a growing unease. “Back up slowly, Jack.”

  The badgers, for their part, had gone no closer, but stood clutching each other, trembling.

  “Uncas?” Jack said, concerned. “Fred? What is it?”

  “Headbones,” Fred whispered. “Lots of suffering.”

  “Are you hurt?” asked John.

  “Not ours,” said Uncas. “Human bean headbones.”

  The little mammal pointed with a shaking paw at the walls, and they suddenly realized why the walls shone. They weren’t clean, so much as bleached.

  It was interesting to realize, John thought, just how neatly skulls could be stacked, and with such precision.

  Suddenly a booming cough came from behind the fortified walls, followed by another, and another, and then something of tremendous mass threw itself against the great doors. The doors shook violently, but held. The creature was tall enough that they could see its hairy bulk rising above the crest of the walls as it—they—paced back and forth, testing the doors with another blow now and again.

  “Do you think they know we’re here?” John whispered. “Jack—did we wake something up?”

  “I’m not going to wait around to ask,” Jack began, before he was cut off by another cough, which was followed by an even more chilling sound.